


Piece by Piece

by shsl_shark



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Heavy Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, You Have Been Warned, it's just a sad story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 20:33:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21167453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shsl_shark/pseuds/shsl_shark
Summary: Korekiyo can't escape the hold of his sister's wrongdoings over the years that have done a deal on his mental health. Random outbursts, random nights of no sleep, and the feeling of if it will happen again. His mask is his safe place but also holds the burdens that it covers. The thought of death is always there, and, one day, maybe it will go away.





	Piece by Piece

**Author's Note:**

> Ok! Hi, how are ya? Sorry for my absence, school has been kicking my booty. This story is kinda a vent kinda relevant to the game, but all in all, I just wanted to write my angst. I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Also, note, most of what happens in this story will be purely based on my headcanons, and only some things will remain canon.

She was the only friend he had growing up. She was his safe place on bad days. She was his everything. When she got sick and was running in and out of hospitals all over the world, they only had each other. He was eleven and didn't know anything but her. Through the hurt, through the long nights of shaky breaths of trying to be quiet, all they knew was each other. Every inch of blushed, pale skin, every strand of thick, dark hair was her. She had given him more than one piece of herm but she had all of him. In return, she gave him a book. A book filled to the brim with humanity.

The funeral was long, raining and cold. Every puff of air to slip past his lips turned to fog and the shakiness of his breathing kept him from losing it. His hands shoved deep in his pant pockets kept him from going to her dead crops and trying to shake her awake. His eyes stayed dry for the tears he shed about her had happened long ago, and he promised he wouldn’t cry at her funeral. He never broke a promise he made with her. 

Every day he drove himself to look as much like her as possible. And every day, he would cover it up with his mask. He never took it off, and he never showed more than his eyes. He covered himself, the fresh, the old, and the scars. He wrapped his fingers in bandages to his hangnails and bloody fingertips from attacks of panic and paranoia. He cut his bangs so they would cover the gaps of lost hair pulled out from restless nights.

His home was a prison, his room a cage that reeked of old perfume and sour clothes. His mother and father didn’t dare look him in the eye, and when they did, all they showed was worry and selfishness. They sent him all over the world so they didn’t have to look at the boy wasting away. They sent him to places people would never go to willingly. He had seen so much. He had learned so much, he had done so much. 

Every blade he saw he wanted to touch him in some way. Standing in the clouded mirror, dagger in hand, grabbing at a thick chunk of long hair. The freshly positioned to cut it into a short bob, hand trembling, heart racing, bitting at his lip. He couldn’t do it. He threw the blade at the door, stabbing the wood. His teeth peeling off the dead skin cells infecting his bottom lip, blood following soon after. Steam pooled out of the shower, coating to mirrors with fog. His skin burned, but it numbed the itch. He scrubbed until the raw flesh underneath began to show, now fresh and bare.

He never slept. Night after night was dedicated to his research. To his notes. To his questions. All he was after, was her. Notes upon notes upon notes, endless stacks of paper taller than him. Dust coated the tables and untouched plates. He hadn’t eaten in almost a week. His hands trembled around the spins of the old books he cradled in his grip. His soft footsteps only disturbed the settling dust around the carpet clung to the wooden floorboards. His heels and hands had calloused from the long nights of walking and gripping and writing, repeating for hours until he eventually collapsed. 

He knew something was wrong when his home grew louder. Person after person, endless talking, the endless clicking of heels, and endless murmurs of calling him “ultimate”. They wanted him. They wanted to take him, to talk to him, to know him, to kill him. That’s when they showed up. Detectives that didn’t take no for an answer. They busted down his door. He immediately grabbed the golden katana that hung above his desk. They held him at gunpoint until everyone complied. They were taking him to a safe location, a safe place for all of the ultimates around the world. The only thing his parents had to do, was fake his death. After he left, they burned everything. The house, the clothes, portraits, pictures, everything. His parents fled. He was declared dead at the scene, but little did the public know, the body found, charred and burnt to a crisp, was his beloved sister.

The ride was long. When they arrived, he was confused. Before him was a medical center, a large white building with marble arches and glistening pools of blue water. Trees twisted into arches, blossoming pink flowers made the air smell fresh, almost pungent. The two men lead him into the building. The inside was almost like the outside. The walls were painted a cool shade of white, and the floors were a light wood. Nurses and doctors passed giving him gentle smiles. The smell lingering in the air didn’t smell like the hospitals he’d been to. This was pleasant. The men stopped at a door, the area sign reading, “Authorized Personel Only,” and he immediately felt some sort of important.

The doors swung open with a gentle push, and a bright light met his eyes. He flinched, eyes now watering. They lead him through a winding hallway and stopped in front of more doors, and soon found himself in a lab filled with other kids who looked the same age as him. They all wore different things and looked just as confused as he did. The one who stood out to him was a boy, shorter than him, with light hair. He wore a striped shirt, and both hands looked weighed down by rings. His eyes lingered for a few moments more before the room doors opened again, and a girl with blue hair was pushed in. She fell over, and another girl with a yellow cardigan walked to her and helped her up. 

The lights flickered, and they stood for a while before the doors opened again, and nurses walked in with what it looked like to be oxygen tubes and pumps. They handed them to all of them and motioned them to put it on. Once all of them had put it on, they turned on the pumps, and soon, he felt dizzy. 

Everyone started dropping to the floor, and he started to fall over. His shoulder hit the wall, and he tried to hold himself up. His eyes couldn’t stay open, his knees hitting the hard floor. Before his eyes closed, the last thing he saw, was the blue hair girl looming over him, her hands caressing his cheek, telling him it would all be over for him soon.


End file.
